


Quills

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Animal Traits, Bottom Jared, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Forests, Graphic Description, M/M, Milking, Mpreg, Psychological Trauma, Revenge, Slavery, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Talking Animals, Top Jensen, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, folktale elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quills provide milk for their farmers. For years, Jared has been happy as the youngest quill in Gray's barn. Mated with older quinn Jensen, the two live in comfort inside their pen. They never want or need for anything due to Gray's diligent care. One day, Gray doesn't show up. And the gate to Jared and Jensen's pen opens. When Jared walks through it, he has no idea of the journey before him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quills

**Author's Note:**

> Beautiful art by the wonderful BlackBlueRose who was nothing but patient and kind with me. <3
> 
> This is heavily inspired by "Over the Garden Wall," a mini-series on Cartoon Network.

 

At sunrise, Jared nudges his pen-mate awake.

From the color of sweet berries grown by the creek to an impressive expanse of strawberries and dandelions, the day stretches out and out and out. The day’s potential brims over, bringing energy to their farm and its sleepy pastures. High, luscious grass stirs from a gentle breeze, waving to the barn. If Jared cranes himself in the correct angle, putting his chin on the very top of the gate to their pen, he can spot the familiar outline of their fence on the horizon. 

The sweetest flowers bloom near the fence. 

Jared’s quick, alert eyes trace out the rest of the farmland. Sunrise peels away shadows from the main house, where Gray sleeps. He’ll be over to the barn soon, not one for starting the day late. A tool shed and garage sit cozily next to the main house. Sometimes, at night, smoke can be spotted drifting out of the chimney in the house. Jared sighs against the wooden gate, his elbows resting on the middle post. The barn stays warm no matter the season or temperature. Even the most stubborn thunderstorms have never threatened the barn’s secure, sturdy walls and roof. 

But Jared can’t help to think how pleasant it must be to see the barn from a distance instead of looking out from it.

A rumbling, ill-tempered voice disrupts Jared’s thoughts. The sound originates from under a nest of quilts and hay, but soon lifts above them. A mop of tawny hair wriggles free from bedding. 

“Get away from the gate,” his pen-mate grumbles. “I won’t repeat myself again, Jared.”

“You wouldn’t wake up,” Jared replies, remaining in place. “I tried.”

Scrubbing his face with one hand, keeping one eye on Jared at all times, Jensen huffs. He sits up and stretches, followed by a mighty yawn that displays strong, healthy teeth. His movements also allow for a view of lean, solid muscle. Interest piqued, Jared loosens his hold on the gate. 

“I was  _ sleeping _ .” Jensen doesn’t bother to brush stray pieces of hay off of himself, meaning that he’s still entertaining plans that involve sleeping--not running through fields or exploring a patch of shamrocks Jared discovered two days ago. They taste okay on their own, but they’re missing something. “...you need your rest--hey, are you listening to me?” 

“You think the tulips would taste good with them?” 

“What? What tulips? And with what?” 

Jared turns, his cheek against his shoulder. “The shamrocks.”

Brow furrowed, Jensen holds his hands up. “What does that have to do with anything I’ve been talking about? Now quit knocking against the gate before I get up and make you.”

“You wouldn’t get up and make me,” Jared mumbles, pouting, slowly slipping away from the gate. On all fours, he crawls over to the nest. “You’d have to get up to make me.”

They’ve shared this pen since Jensen arrived to the barn. He was about Jared’s age then and the pen was much smaller. Once Gray was sure they’d get along, he moved them into Tom and Nancy’s pen next door for a few days. Jared watched the entire process. Instead of three pens on the right side of the barn, Gray changed it to two. He took out an entire wall, patched up the ceiling, and fixed a few cracks in the floor before moving them in. There was more space for Jared’s elbows and feet, which has always pleased him. Of course, there’s also more space for Jensen’s grumpy moods.

“I’d get up,” the older quinn snorts, burrowing back into hay and blankets. 

With a sigh, Jared plops down at the edge of their bedding. He picks at a few straws of hay, turning from laying on his stomach to his back and to his side. “If the tulips don’t work out, I guess I’ll try the marigolds.”

“Those make you sick.”

“Not really,” Jared mutters. “I just get a little queasy.”

“Fine, whatever, eat a rock for all I care--just come back to bed.”

Quills require exercise. While their pen offers ample space and comfort to move around, nothing compares to the luxurious graze of grass and soft, yielding soil against Jared’s feet. Hardwood floors don’t have dirt. Gray doesn’t allow dirt in the barn. It might be nice to be clean from time to time, but without dirt there are no flowers, no mud pies, no interesting, wiggling worms. The heat from the floors is certainly welcomed on rainy, cold days, but it is neither of those things today. 

Restless, Jared rolls onto his back, legs up in the air, arms splayed out at his sides. 

“I wanna go out,” he complains, squeezing his eyes shut. “And you said you’d go out with me.”

“I did not.”

“You did too.”

Jensen sits up again, this time less composed, the color of a tulip spread across the bridge of his nose. He puffs his chest out and chews on his bottom lip before huffing yet again. “Maybe if you came back to bed you’d see why I want you back in bed.” 

Exercise can be obtained by using other methods. Jared tumbles into their nest and dives under the blankets. He ignores Jensen’s protests and attempts at decency. It’s too late. Jensen brought it up and now he has to deal with the consequences. Hay snaps and snips underneath them, while the blankets keep heat inside. Jared’s elbows poke Jensen’s legs only a few times as they twist, turn, and adjust. Eventually, Jared finds distraction settled between muscular, freckled thighs. This is a different kind of sunrise.

Roused awake by the sight, green eyes lock onto Jared’s mouth, anticipating its intent.

A great deal of care goes into the young quill’s movements. He’s often brash, if a little clumsy. Most of that Gray attributes to Jared’s age; at seventeen, Jared is still growing. Though he isn’t all arms and legs as he was two years ago, he can’t always harness his excitement. And it isn’t often that Jensen invites him into their bedding like this. 

Under the quilts, something personal and private lingers between them. 

It threads itself into the tempting rise and fall of Jensen’s chest. With lips as sumptuous as clovers--in both shape and color--the quinn relaxes. This is an invitation, an opportunity. And for four years, it’s been Jared’s privilege to accept each and every one offered. Quinns mate quills. The fact remains simple. Quills produce milk, sustenance for humans. A quill can produce milk without a quinn, but the quality improves when mating is introduced. Jared knew he was a quill from the time he was small and raised in a large barn with six times as many quills as reside in Gray’s barn. Space was tight. Everyone was close and yet no one spoke. 

None of the quills or quinns in Gray’s barn talk much to each other, but Jared knows their names.

Though his mind floats far, far away from his own name at the moment.

Jensen arrived at Gray’s in the middle of the night, at the end of a long, hot summer. The air that night had been thick, humid, and spiked with the scent of thunder about to roll in. Above the barn, the sky was tinted iron; and before them was a quinn, enraged and wild, marks created by wrought iron on his back.

When it rains, Jared licks these marks, now scars. 

Comfortable silence graces the barn, filling up space in its own intimate way.

The first lick comes almost as a shock to the older quinn. Jared enjoys the control, snorting in satisfaction at the sight of the first of many sharp inhales and trembles. He understands Jensen in most ways. There are gentle mornings when instinct tells Jared it will be a good day to play; then there are skittish nights he must understand that his pen-mate requires solitude. Warmed by their nest, Jared relaxes, his own heartbeat slowing while his actions inspire the opposite effect in Jensen. 

Hay crinkles in response to Jensen’s left leg bucking and his hips tilting. Jared smiles, all good nature, and flicks his tongue on the underside of the quinn’s heavy, flushed cock. The fire and energy he tends to submits, yielding everything--the timing, the pace, the depth. Loud enough for the quinn to hear, Jared suckles on the twitching head, his hands splayed out over freckled, robust thighs. They are the youngest of their kind in the barn. Knowledge of their purpose sparks a shiver through Jared. 

One day, when the time is right, Jared will carry their legacy. 

In all their time together inside their pen, Jared has witnessed hundreds of captivating qualities displayed by the quinn underneath him. Jensen makes an admirable mate; he will no doubt make a beloved father. 

Enticed by these thoughts, Jared works his mouth further down, breathing in deep through his nose and concentrating his focus on the task at hand. He knows how much Jensen likes this. It’s no secret between them. Of course the quinn takes pleasure in mating, but this act stands out as something special. It isn’t necessary. It isn’t required. It exists because Jared desires it. Jared offered it; Jensen accepted. After a few somewhat clumsy and inelegant attempts, the young quill could swallow Jensen down to the hilt with his mouth, just like his hips. Over time, Jared added technique and playful teasing. 

Jared moans around Jensen’s cock, adding to the steady sound of wind against the walls of the barn. 

Regal muscles tighten underneath Jared’s fingers. 

With care, Jared seals his lips around Jensen’s cock, adding spit, dragging out the process. He waits for each catch of breath, every voracious, throaty groan, and keens in response to the tender hand patting his head. Jensen has never once been rough. 

Two scents mix in Jared’s consciousness--the sweet smell of fresh, clean hay and the peppery aroma of his surrendering mate. Like climbing vines, Jensen’s fingers lace through tousled strands of Jared’s hair. Eyes closed, Jared has neither sight nor voice--nor worry. He latches onto blossoming whines, thriving compulsion, and prolific, stinging thirst. Up and down, he work his mouth, lips, tongue, and throat. He holds Jensen in his throat, deep and aching, territorial in the nipping challenge of his teeth along sensitive skin. Sighing, Jared pops off, smirking, licking his lips and meeting the jade-green eyes of his quinn. 

Luscious lips part on the edge of a fevered plea for more. 

Jensen shatters their gaze at the sound of their gate swinging open. Alert and protective, he shimmies out of the layer of quilts above them, hay barely rustling from his instinctual movements. Jared snorts his displeasure and murmurs, “It’s just Gray.”

From the surface, above their patchwork canopy, Jensen huffs. Jared shrugs off the anxious energy pouring off the quinn. Gray has simply arrived to tend to them. 

“It opened on its own,” Jensen breathes, still as the barn walls. 

“It couldn’t have,” Jared counters. “Gray?” 

The call receives no reply, no familiar voice answering back. Only the wind outside casts a lonely retort.

Frustrated, Jared tosses the quilts off and sits up. His eyes flash around their pen, the gate, and their view of the barn. This must be a mistake. 

“I heard no footsteps,” the older quinn hisses, displeased at Jared’s actions. “And I gave you no permission to come out.” 

Ignoring the complaint, Jared crawls off their nest, settling next to Jensen for the moment. This view is not much better, though it affords him a closer look at the gate. There it is, as mundane and boring as ever, with its simplistic design and outside latch only Gray can touch. 

“You just didn’t hear them.” Jared speaks with confidence, nodding to emphasize his point. 

Nudging their shoulders together, Jensen grumbles, “If he opened the gate, then why isn’t he here?”

“Oh.” 

A myriad of reasons, explanations, and causes trot through Jared’s mind, however, none seem to fit. Each one sticks out like a rock tossed onto an arrangement of flowers. Why wouldn’t he announce his presence in the barn, as he does every day? Their play--even underneath the quilts--had never kept him from greeting them. Jared cranes forward from his spot, hoping to see another pen open and Gray inside it. 

“Tom?” Jensen moves closer to the wall they share with their neighbors. Concern and worry mark the older quinn’s face, He repeats the quinn’s name, the tone in his voice matching the edge to the wind outside. 

Without consulting Jensen, Jared approaches the gate. He does so with caution, a kind of reserve he hadn’t possessed this morning. Peering up at the latch, his eyes confirm it unhinged. One glance at the barnfloor and Jared smiles, thumping his right hand on the ground in relief. Footprints lead from their pen to the barn door. Gray was here. Something must have demanded his attention before he could call out to Jared or Jensen, and since it must have been a pressing matter, he didn’t have time to shut the gate.

Curious, Jared sniffs the gate, picking up a trace of sunflowers. Gray must have walked through the field on his way to the barn. The footprints serve as proof to Gray’s visit. Assured by the outlines of heavy boots, Jared presses his forehead against the open gate. 

“Jared!” 

A pair of hands crashland on Jared’s shoulders, pulling him back in almost a tumble. 

“But I…!”

“No!” Jensen’s voice snaps out in a guttural boom. “We do not leave our pens and you do not leave my sight.”

Pouting, the quill looks away, angry and put off by the quinn’s tone. If it were up to Jensen, Jared would never be allowed to run outside in the fields or paddle across the cool, inviting creek. He would never wake up before dawn and therefore never see the sun rise each morning, lifting up and over swaths of clouds until finally, it spreads out and covers their land in light.

Shrugging off the quinn’s hands, Jared kneels, arms crossed over his bare chest. “He  _ was _ here,” Jared scoffs. “His footprints are by the gate.”

To his credit, Jensen checks. He peers out, not once touching the gate. 

Back inside their pen, the quinn shakes his head. “They’re pointing away from the door.” 

Silence passes between them. They each take their turns building stories in their minds, only to have them crumble into mud. Jared crouches next to Jensen. 

“It’s milking day,” Jared whispers, keeping his head down. “He always comes in for milking day.”

“I know.” 

“What if the barn door is open?”

“It isn’t.”

“But what if it is?” 

“Then we stay here,” Jensen commands. “We never leave our pens without Gray.”

Arguing will get no further with the older quinn. Jared snorts and devises another plan. He plods over to their nest and settles in once more, underneath hay and quilts. “Close it,” he murmurs, curling up on his side. 

After a minute staring at the unmoving gate, Jensen listens. He shuts it closed, careful not to slam it. From the motion, the gate creaks and groans back into place. Another minute slips past and Jensen joins Jared. However, instead of facing the quill, Jensen lies down facing the gate. His scars on display, Jared sniffles. Something feels wrong. It isn’t raining and yet he can trace the jagged marks of iron on Jensen’s back. 

“What did Tom say?” Jared maintains his voice barely above a whisper. 

A statue of lean muscle, Jensen answers plainly. “Nothing.” 

“Maybe they’re still sleeping…”

The wind outside almost carries away Jensen’s voice. 

“Maybe.” 

 

Quills are curious by nature.

They learn at an extraordinary pace, frequently seeking out more information. This can, in younger quills, result in testing boundaries. 

Jared’s arrival at the barn had been a relief from the crowded pens of the auction house. The transition occurred more or less smoothly; it helped that the older pairs were neither threatened or frightened of him. It was his place as the youngest quill to one day achieve what they could not: give birth to a foal. Jared understood it, the older pairs understood it, and Gray prepared him for it. Quills require exercise--for the benefit of their minds as well as their bodies. Jared had always been on the lankier side, but he was attentive to Gray’s instructions. Gradually, Jared’s diet changed. More raw vegetables were added to his daily feed; he was fed two apples at night and a portion of sliced beets tossed in a light, shiny oil. 

Gray measures and weighs every quill and quinn in his care three times a week.

With the exception of Jared and Jensen. He tends to them four times every week. In addition, Jared always receives an extra milking, a habit that started last year, after his sixteenth birthday. Gray said the extra milking was a sign that Jared’s body was getting ready to carry a foal. When Jared asked why he couldn’t do so then, Gray simply pat his head and replied in the same straightforward manner he always had to Jared’s questions.

“You’re not ready.”

After hours of further questioning--or pestering, though that was Jensen’s word--Jared convinced the older quinn to explain. Jensen extracted a promise from Jared that after their talk, the quill would finally be quiet and go to sleep. In true Jensen form, the delivery of this information was brief: quills can often give birth to foals by the age of sixteen. However, kinder farmers allow a foal to mature at their own pace, physically and emotionally. Gray, Jensen stated, thought waiting was beneficial; it would lower the risk of a miscarriage and any damage to Jared or the foal. 

He had been ready then, though neither Gray nor Jensen really listened to him. Gray kept issuing shots in Jared’s upper arms, once a month without fail. 

An entire year older, Jared knows he is ready now. 

And what better way to prove it than by being brave? 

Inhale. Exhale. Deeper inhale. Longer exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Deeper inhale. Longer exhale.

Jared suppresses a smile. Jensen’s breathing patterns are as familiar to him as the patchwork on their quilts. There are two patterns Jared has studied the most: sleeping Jensen and pretending to sleep Jensen. With the all-clear, Jared soundlessly rolls off their nest. This is routine. There have been instances when the younger quill has arisen, restless and energized two hours before dawn. Two stern warnings from the older quinn necessitated the ability to leave their nest without disruption. Jared would then play with the red rubber ball in the corner of their pen, if it wasn’t lodged into the chink in the wall. 

Crawling away from the slumbering quinn, Jared inches towards the gate. 

The quill noses the wooden piece that reaches his chest. He doesn’t dare touch it with his hands. That would be directly disobeying Jensen. But say the rubber red ball nudged the gate? After all, it’s only the slightest push…

Hushed, the gate swings open.

Dandelion sunlight pours from the three windows near the barn’s ceiling. There might still be time for a quick run through the sunflower field. Or, at the very least, some time to trot on the grass surrounding the barn. 

Outside. Inside. Pen. Barn. Field. Outside. Inside. Inhale. Exhale. Deeper inhale. Longer exhale. 

Assured in his mission, Jared slips through the open space between the outstretched gate and their stoic pen. He doesn’t question the latch. Thick stripes of natural light charm him, promising enticing sensations of heat. The clear, clean barn floor provides the perfect setting to stretch out, roll around, and investigate his surroundings from a completely new and exciting angle. 

The quill starts over, crouched, on hands and knees. 

At the front of the barn, he turns around, his back to the door, facing the two rows of pens separated by one stretch of ground the color of pebbles at the bottom of the creek. This must be Gray’s view. A thrill passes through Jared; now he has a secret. Oh, he might tell Jensen, in time, but for the moment the secret is his and only his. And though he treasures the notion, the quill senses something amiss--Gray would never crouch or crawl. He always walks upright. So, this couldn’t possibly be true to life. 

Jared’s muscles coil in preparation. Just a few seconds. No more than that. 

Holding his head high, Jared freezes, eyes wide. He looks over to his left, where the slightest sound emerged. The barn door opened. 

But how? 

Nothing and no one stands in the wide doorway. 

Spooked, Jared angles his right hand towards his pen. He was brave enough to leave it, but instinct shouts at him to return immediately. Set on his direction, the quill moves forward an inch. Though he hurries, commanding his hands and legs to work, every motion lasts three times as long as if stuck in sap. 

Out of the corner of his eye, the red rubber ball tumbles past the barn door. 

Gray!

The quill races outside. His long, conditioned legs rush him forth, past the open door. Bronze light provided by the setting sun shimmers in greeting. Grinning, Jared charges in the opposite direction of the red rubber ball. Gray must have tossed it, which means Jared should retrieve it, but just this once Jared must break the rules. Jared’s eyes search the space directly in front of him, then to the left, then to the right, and then back to the barn. 

Turning around once more, Jared lets out a whine. The young quill stands in place with his shoulders slumped. Not even the red rubber ball can be seen. 

A distant shout from the sunflower patch erupts across the grass and away from the barn. 

Two hands grab Jared’s shoulders.

“Jared!” 

Shrieking, Jared bucks against the hands, squeezing his eyes shut in fear. The hands contort his body, turning him around with an impatient shake. 

“What are you doing?” Jensen growls. “Open your eyes.”

The quill’s heart rattles against his ribs, pounding at an alarming rate. He throws his arms around Jensen, burying his face in the quinn’s neck, mewling a plea for forgiveness. The barn door was open. Jared thought Gray would be out here, and since the red rubber ball rolled past… 

Visibly upset, Jensen snorts and places an inch of space between them, meeting Jared’s eyes. “What are you talking about? Your ball’s been stuck in the wall since last week. I told you I’m not getting it out of there until you let me sleep past dawn.”

“I saw it!” Jared quips. “The door opened and I saw it!”

Doubt stares back at the quill. “Whatever you think you saw, forget it. Come back inside.”

“But I…” 

“No, not another word.” Jensen stands an inch taller, feet spread, chin tilted out. The line of his jaw bounces. “Come back into the barn, Jared.” 

Not about to be scolded like a foal, Jared breathes hard. He won’t be pushed around by his quinn--today or any other day. If Jensen would only stop and listen to what he has to say, instead of lecturing or grunting out what Jared should or shouldn’t do…

Another shout cracks through the field.

Jared bolts.

 

The quality of a quill’s milk depends on a variety of variables. Farmers most often refer to age, temperament, emotional state, and physical condition. Fertile quills produce the highest quality of milk. Mature quills do not drink their own milk, nor each other’s milk. Water remains preferable to quills above anything else. Quinns can drink the milk from their own quill’s or another’s in moderation or risk excess weight gain. 

Farmers and their families enjoy quill milk. 

A long time ago, longer than any living quill or quinn can remember, farmers supplied their families with the milk of animals.

Milking should be conducted on a schedule. The process should be beneficial to both quill and farmer.

Racing through fragrant juniper meadows, bounding over brush and rock, Jared concentrates every ounce of focus into his body. He controls the muscles in his legs, commands the beating of his heart, and conducts the rhythm of each rapid breath. Barefoot, he covers his tracks, twisting and weaving through the sunflower patch. Jensen can pick up his scent through the aromatics around them, but it doesn’t have to be easy. 

Jared is fast.

He can outrun Jensen and any other quill or quinn on the farm. 

Sunflowers part for him. They bow and make a path where there was none before. The patch glitters, resplendent in the brightest yellows, contrasted by the purest blacks. Sunset does not dim them. 

Further and further into the sunflowers’ ward, Jared listens, pleading for the owner of the shouts to reveal themselves and their location. He cannot pinpoint the direction of the shout without hearing its source again. Head up, posture in correct alignment, the young quill exerts a large reserve of his energy to run out of the sunflower patch and back out to the meadows. 

Except, the patch does not end where it should.

He runs much farther than the memory in his feet. The patch should have ended ten yards that way. Is it possible to be turned around? Could he have confused himself in his hurry? But how many times has he timed the distance, measured his steps…? He can’t be wrong. He was distracted, that’s all. Pushing the sinews and tendons in his legs, Jared accelerates. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. For three seconds he closes his eyes. While scrutinizing every stalk, petal, and rich mound of soil, desperation spikes, hounding after the beating of his heart. 

Gasping for breath, Jared stumbles out of the patch, skidding into a field of shamrocks. 

Sunflowers alert him of Jensen’s presence, rustling as the older quinn works his way through the maze. 

“Jared,” he calls out, distress apparent in his voice. His hand sticks out of the patch first, followed by his head. Locking his sight on Jared, he muscles out of the sunflowers, which grow thick and close together at the edge. “Don’t run where I can’t see you.” 

Clusters of delicate shamrocks tickle Jared’s ankles. He shakes his head, snorting, and turns away from Jensen. “I heard him. I heard him here.” 

Gray has never missed a milking session with any of the quills. It isn’t good for them to skip sessions. Already, a tinge of pain wriggles its way into Jared’s spine. Even on the bleakest, rainiest days, Gray would visit, often spending more time than usual with each pair to ensure they had what they needed. Their pens are always warm and dry. Gray changes their hay every three days. With Jensen’s permission, he’ll sit on stool beside Jared’s milking station and pet Jared as the machine works. Gentle hands have always brushed his hair back, tucking it behind his ear, while a voice in a deep timbre murmurs praise and adoration. 

“We need to go to the barn, Jared.” 

“Gray’s not there.” 

“It’s going to be nighttime soon.” 

“But Gray’s not there,” Jared insists, stomping his foot. “And I heard him, I know I did.” The young quill trots forward, away from the sunflower patch and the barn. Too many questions simmer in his mind. It sounds nice at first, to follow Jensen and fall asleep in their nest again. They might even mate, and Jensen knows how to hook him up to the milking station in their pen. Physical relief tempts the young quill. Perhaps he could pick up the threads of these questions tomorrow, at first light. Jensen could hold him closer, heated by their quilts and hay, and perhaps indulge Jared with a few licks to his cheek.

Chin up, Jared continues walking towards the dense, abundant fields of grass and flowers. Fencing rests not too far from where they are. 

He can feel Jensen hesitate. 

It will break a small piece of his heart to go alone.

Catching up, Jensen catches Jared’s hand, holding it firmly against his own. He doesn’t say much, a welcome reprieve. 

At the fence separating their farm from the forest, the quinn squeezes the quill’s hand.

Helping Jared over the fence, Jensen murmurs, “Just keep your eyes open.”

 

Much does not need to be said between them.

They walk and walk through the forest, seeking the best possible footing, with Jensen carefully lifting Jared up over rotten logs or thickets of thorns. Jared pauses their efforts for a fraction of a moment afterwards, every time licking Jensen on the cheek in appreciation. More than once, the quinn accepts each lick, snorting softly in Jared’s hair. 

Quinns possess better eyesight in the dark than quills. Jensen’s eyes adjust to the indigo veil lain across the forest. The forest floor releases its heat from the sun and turns cold quickly. With every twenty steps, trees impress upon their surroundings, huddling closer and closer together, sending undisclosed messages to each other. Branches sway without any wind. Trunks groan, both distant and near. Curled leaves flounder to the ground. Stashed away in their secret places, owls and squirrels stare out, still and static.

Their quest seems simple: find Gray and go back to the barn. 

An hour passes. Jensen declares that he can no longer see the barn from where they are. 

Aged trees cluster around spindly, slender saplings. Crisp grass and leaves crunch beneath their feet at the slightest pressure. Fortresses of vines and thorns alter what could be pathways, rendering them impassable. Flowers take on a different shape here, accustom to antique shade. And although life ripples in patters throughout--in the trees and on the floor--it’s the stillness of it all that disturbs the balance. 

Jared presses on. His shoulders tilt, avoiding clumps of hanging moss. When his footing slips over an unseen rock, Jensen’s firm grip on his hand prevents a nasty fall. The quill can sense Jensen’s apprehension--of treading so far from the barn and making their slow, clumsy way through the forest without the aid of daylight. He can also nearly count the seconds until Jensen strongly suggesting that they stop for the night. But why stop? That’s more time wasted. 

Leaves crunch to Jared’s right.

Jensen is on his left.

He does his best not to scream, squeezing Jensen’s hand so tight that the quinn takes a sharp inhale of breath. Both quinn and quill look to the right. 

A flash of black--darker than any of the shadows, crevices, or thickets in the forest--zips past. 

Is it something dreadful? Something chasing them? A distraction? Or is it something running away from something worse? Fear sluices off of Jared in waves. He wanted to come out here. He ran after the ball. These are the consequences of his actions. Why didn’t he listen to Jensen and return to the barn? 

Stopped for the moment, Jensen presses his hands against Jared’s face in a rare show of affection. 

It’s not that quinns lack emotion. All the opposite. It’s just that Jensen’s affection wasn’t won easily, which made it all the more worth earning. 

Nose to nose, Jensen’s close breathing slows Jared’s. He almost hums his words. 

“Easy. Easy now.” 

Nodding, Jared sniffles. He slips his hands over Jensen’s and allows himself a tiny indulgence, a momentary pause. The second lips press over his he leans in and accepts the kiss. More than that, the three licks to his cheek provide delicate comfort. 

Jensen listens to the forest. He stands tall, hands on Jared’s shoulders, and nods that they can proceed. 

Further and further into the thick of nature they walk. 

The moon peers at them from high up, behind a flaxen shroud. 

They reach a large, illuminated clearing--a perfect circle, swept level, meticulously cared for.

In the middle, on a single, gnarled tree stump, a black cat sits. But it doesn’t just sit, like cats should; it sits the way Jared or Jensen, or even Gray, sits. It smiles. It displays its pointed teeth. Legs crossed, it taps one claw from its front paw on the stump. 

Corpses of field mice lay beside this cat. 

“Don’t mind them,” the cat simpers with a purr. “They’re dinner.”

Jensen grips Jared’s hand, jaw set, intent on ignoring the mice, the cat, and the clearing. They’ll go another way. They’ll go around instead of through. 

“That will take you twice as long.” 

Jared lingers, slowing down the pace of his step. Twice as long? 

“Mmyes, more dangerous that way, too.” The cat chomps down on a mouse. Bones crack. A squeak echoes, slithering into Jared’s ears. “You’ll run into Sitiv for sure.” 

Tugging on Jensen’s hand, the young quill silently begs him to stop. Jensen snorts and pulls Jared forward. His answer is still no. Absolutely not. Gray has never allowed any other animal inside the barn. They don’t need a cat because there are no mice. Cats--and any other creature outside their barn--are not ever to be trusted. 

Fur as dark as midnight and glossy like the moon gleams from the dead center of the clearing. The cat speaks in a higher pitch, taking its time pronouncing every word. “Too bad then, since you’ve made up your minds. I have a present for the little one.” 

“Cats cannot talk!” Jensen snaps at it. In frustration, he lets go of Jared’s hand, motioning towards the stump. “Why would you want to listen to it?” 

Before Jared can answer, the cat hisses, almost spitting at Jensen. “How do you  _ know _ cats can’t talk? Have you ever asked one? Have you ever invited one insssside to get out of the freezing cold?” Not a scrap of mouse hangs from its mouth. On the other side of the cat, the one not occupied by the corpses of mice, laid an ivory handkerchief. 

“Please,” Jared blurts out, taking a step forward. “What do you have for me?” 

The grin unleashed from obsidian cheeks practically shines. Tapping its extended claw against the stump yet again, its canary-yellow eyes show a distinct interest. “I can’t very well give you your present from all the way over there.” 

“You’re not serious--Jared?” Jensen takes half a step, hand outstretched.

Looking over his shoulder, Jared responds, “I am.” 

“And you’re going the wrong way.” The cat crosses its legs, leaning back on its contorted throne. “Too far into the forest and you’ll run into Sitiv. That’s for certain.” 

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Deeper inhale. Longer exhale. Each step builds the unease stirring in the young quill’s chest. Not a single leaf or blade of grass lies inside the clearing. Even the trees that grow around it refrain from stretching their branches over it, going so far to grow in such a way as to avoid the spillage of their shadows. 

Within an arm’s length of the cat, Jared notices that some of the mice--only some, not all--are still alive.

“Oh,” the cat says, almost sweetly. “I don’t deliver messages myself. Nasty business, those things. Now go on, listen. Then you may have your present and I’ll even help you out a little.”

Jared bites his bottom lip. He finds his voice, though it sounds watery to his ears. “In exchange for what?” 

“That’s good progressssss. I like you.” The cat tosses an unfriendly glance in Jensen’s direction. “You’re nice. So I tell you what, little one. When you get back, let me in when it rains.” 

“Why?” 

“I,” the cat scrunches its nose as it speaks, “ _ hate _ the rain. It messes up my fur.” 

It makes sense to Jared. He wouldn’t enjoy being in the rain either. And their conversation was taking up time. “That’s fine. I’ll let you in.” 

“Excellent!” With its right paw, the cat nudges one of the mice closest to it. “Now, listen.” 

Small, silver, and round, the field mouse stands upright. It coughs and clears its throat before squeaking:

_ In the white room with black curtains, near the station. _

_ Blackroof country, no gold pavements, tired starlings.  _

_ Dawnlight smiles on you leaving, my contentment _

_ I’ll wait in this place where the sun never shines _

_ Wait in this place where the shadows run from themselves. _

Bowing, the mouse takes its former place. 

The cat pats its head and meets Jared’s eyes. “I’m not so bad, I promise. But everything has an end. You’ll see. And when you do, don’t be afraid of them.” With the handkerchief, the cat picks up Jared’s present: a gray, polished rock the size of a few pellets of feed. “Don’t let anyone else touch it.” It drops into Jared’s palm, surprisingly heavy. “It won’t work the same.”

Then, just like it said, the cat provides Jared with instructions on how to proceed after the clearing. 

“How do you know where we’re going?” 

“Where you’re going?” The cat begins licking its right paw. “Some things I jusssst know.” 

Taking Jensen’s hand, Jared starts off, this time in front. 

 

_ Silver horses ran down moonbeams in your dark eyes _

_ Platform ticket, restless diesels, goodbye windows _

_ I walked into such a sad time at the station _

_ As I walked out, felt my own need just beginning _

_ I’ll wait in the queue when the trains come back _

_ Lie with you where the shadows run from themselves _

_ At the party she was kindness in the hard crowd _

_ Consolation for the old wound now forgotten _

_ Yellow tigers crouched in jungles in her dark eyes _

_ She’s just dressing, goodbye windows, tired starlings _

_ I’ll sleep in this place with the lonely crowd; _

_ Lie in the dark where the shadows run from themselves _

 

Forests rot.

Everywhere, constantly, something in the forest undergoes the silent process of decay. The sweet scents of berries ripening melds with the odor of deterioration. Nighttime neither hastens nor slows this process. Pieces of writhered branches fall at their leisure, creating thumps and echoes through the forest, answering some inaudible call. 

“It changes color, Jensen.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“It does!”

“You think it does.”

“I know it does. Back by that tree with the moth it was gold. Now it’s silver.”

“What tree with what moth?”

“I saw a white moth on a tree.”

“That could have been any tree, Jared.”

“How do you know?”

“...fine.” 

“It was a pretty moth.”

“What’s that thing do, anyway?”

“The cat didn’t say. I just know you can’t touch it.”

“Hmph. Cats are nosy.”

“Those poor mice.”

“Speaking of, aren’t you hungry?”

“Don’t make me eat a mouse.”

“Do I look like a no good cat to you?”

“I just don’t want to eat a mouse.”

“I’m not going to make you eat a mouse.” 

“Okay.”

“Well?”

“Oh. No. I’m not hungry.” 

“Tired? Maybe you should rest.”

“A little…”

“We can rest.”

“So soon?” 

“You need to rest.”

“Will you sit with me?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want to sleep though.”

“Who would want to sleep in a place like this?”

“The cat does.”

“Let’s not talk about the cat anymore, please.”

“I want to know how it chopped down that tree.”

“It didn’t… what did I say about the cat?”

“I didn’t get to eat my shamrocks.” 

“They’ll be there when we get back.”

“I hope so. Look! Now it’s gold.”

“Huh. So it is.”

“What do you think Sitiv is?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re tired, Jen.” 

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

“I got used to it.” 

The quinn looks away, up at the canopy, where the trees hide the stars. 

 

No matter how far they walk, daylight never returns. Neither quill nor quinn know if they are pressing further into the forest or traveling in circles. They try to mark trees, drop trails of twigs or leaves, but their markers always disappear. 

After a long length of time, the young quill admits to the quinn that he is in pain. 

Who knows how many hours or days have passed since his last milking. Out in the perpetual misty forest there are no milking stations. No cozy beds of hay and quilts. No red rubber ball to kick around as distraction from the ache in his feet and the uncomfortable fullness in his stomach. The forest floor yields no warmth or give. And perhaps worst of all, they have no neighbors.

Jensen offers to milk Jared while they take another rest, this time by a collection of moss and vines at the base of an old tree. The young quill sniffles and pouts as he considers the options. In the barn, if things were as they should be, Gray would knock on their gate and make eye contact with Jensen before entering. Then he would walk over to them both, no matter where they were in their pen, hold out his hand, and gift gentle, soothing pats on the head. Under Jensen’s watch, Gray would then lead the quill over to his station--two horizontal wooden posts covered in sheepskin. One post is for Jared to rest his head and arms on, the other for his knees. In position, Gray would pet Jared’s head again, card his fingers through his hair, and murmur compliments. 

Not once had the machine hurt Jared. 

Under Gray’s hands, everything was done with care. He would do that now, even in the darkest of places. And while Jared trusts Jensen to do the same, the materials aren’t right. Leaves and twigs cannot be turned into a proper milking machine. With build up, Jared would need a few hours on the machine; something neither Jensen’s nor Gray’s hands could manage. 

Perhaps the worst part, Jared knows, is the lack of container for his milk. 

It would all go to waste. 

That notion too unbearable to consider, Jared insists on continuing. If they are walking in circles then they have to reach the clearing again somehow. And if not, then surely they would hear another shout, or have some indication of Gray’s location. 

Trotting side by side and hand in hand with the quinn, the younger quill keeps his free arm wrapped around his slightly distended middle. Occasionally, he feels a pulse from his lower stomach, a sting that spreads pain throughout his body. He would never waste milk. Never. 

The sound of voices snaps Jared out of his head. 

“Not there,” Jensen whispers. “Let’s not go there.”

“But they might have seen Gray.” 

“That’s going too deep.” 

“We’re in deep enough,” Jared counters, chin up despite his pain. “Please.”

Jensen takes in a measured, deep breath and nods. “But don’t let go of my hand. Not for a second.”

“Same goes for you.” 

Advancing on the voices, they take care to keep their footsteps light, avoiding twigs and thorns. In Jared’s closed palm, the stone shifts from a milky silver to a vivid gold. 

Old and young trees stretch to form arches above a stone wall. Each stone fits its place, selected for their round, solid shapes. Unlike the rest of the forest, neither moss nor vines grow around or on the wall. It is orderly. It is stable. Not even a cobweb dusts the surface. The wall stands to Jared’s hips, wrapping around in a circle, broken by only one entrance. 

Kneeling at the ledge, close as they dare, the quinn and quill take their chance. 

The bleached, naked bones of quills and quinns past dance to a sedated tune.

Alabaster skeletal figures rattle, knock together and clatter. Moonlight bathes them. Elegance never eludes them. Empty, ebony eye sockets stare out, accompanied by the neutral expression of skinless faces. Effortlessly, their jaw bones open and close, singing out in voices deeper than the roots of the oldest trees.

_ The Devil is a window filled with fancy clothes.  _

Behind the words soar moans and wails.

_ Where are you going to run? Where do you think you’re going to hide? What makes you think you’re slick enough to take old Satan for a ride? No matter what you do… our old friend Mephistopheles stays just ahead of you. _

Hand in hand, the skeletons drift off in pairs, floating towards mounds of clean hay and weathered slabs of black stone. 

_ The Devil never rests come day, come dusk, come dawn. You compromise and wind up sold in parts.  _

_ Oooooohhhh... _

_ So don’t it strike you funny when you look him in the eye… _

_ The Devil looks a lot like you and I. _

One second after the last word, every porcelain frame rotates.

Bulbous eye sockets fixate on Jared.

Every instinct implores--scream! Scream and run! Don’t listen to another word of their somber song, it isn’t a message meant for him, he has no business here, none at all…!

Staring back, the young quill remains kneeling, without any scream or shriek slipping out of his mouth. He cannot move. He will not move. No, because he remembers what was said to him before: everything has an end. Don’t be afraid of them. 

This is an end. 

It is by no means perfect or without pain.

The skeleton closest to the young quill sails forward. Its neck rotates on its shoulders like a half moon, causing its jaw to shake back and forth. Again, it does this, and again, and again, until it stops in front of Jared and halts all movement. 

No, is what it said. Not the right place to look, but the right place to listen. 

Out of the corner of Jared’s eye, the red rubber ball bounces past, hurtling into the forest. The skeleton at Jared’s place lifts up an arm and points--in the opposite direction. 

Eyes watering, Jared shakes his head, turning to face Jensen. 

Jensen, who no longer kneels next to Jared. 

Vanished. 

Gone. 

As are the skeletons.

 

Pulverizing the ground beneath him, Jared gallops at speeds previously thought impossible. Bending, leaping, dodging, swerving, and plummeting into incomprehensible obscurity--he never stops. Not for breath. Not for fear. Not for doubt. 

He had pictured it differently. He had dreamt of an early morning, nudging Jensen’s shoulders and licking his cheek. And if that didn’t work, then he’d simply snort into the quinn’s ear and then bite on the lobe to tug just a little. After the usual facade of frowns and grumbles, Jensen would pin him down and butt their foreheads together. Maybe some teasing. Or a compliment. Maybe something like he could almost see Jared glowing already. And then the tug of the quilt, the fragrance of fresh hay. It would start like a game. Who could kiss and win? Who could resist the longest? Tie. A good tie. Kisses. More licks. Jared’s hands on Jensen’s scars. Jensen’s hips in between Jared’s legs. Slick. Tight. Heat. Arching. Stretching. Pleading. No shots in the quill’s arms. No holding back. Nothing but the tender, relentless pounding of his mate’s cock buried deep inside him. Looking up and licking Jensen’s chin, shuddering in pleasure, begging for more. Exhilarating abandon. Scorching urgency to be marked, to be mated, to carry Jensen’s foal. To make Gray proud. To make the entire barn proud. Claimed and held close. Sweating, fevered, and ravenous for everything his mate had to give. There. Right there. Fingers fisted in tawny hair. Freckled shoulders creating a muscular home, all-encompassing and never ending. Breaths hitching. Hips bucking. Jared’s cock spurting the one spray of milk meant for this and this only. Jensen groaning at the sight, biting into Jared’s shoulder and leaving the most exquisite brand. More. More. More. Everything. Twitching. Releasing. Filled up. And again. Once more. Pounding, thrusting, one more time, just once more… 

Silver and gold. Silver and gold. This is the passage of time. Two hundred and seventy days. Nine months. Silver and gold. Silver and gold. Inhale. Exhale. Shallow inhale. Ragged exhale. This is not the pattern of Jensen sleeping. It is not the pattern of Jensen pretending to sleep. 

Fluid as the sweat rolling off his skin, Jared rushes. 

He chose the opposite way. 

One day, he will join that quill. And Jensen will join Jared. It will happen to them. It will happen to Gray. It will happen to the burgeoning pain in Jared’s abdomen. It will happen as it must happen. There are some things he knows and some things he does not. There is no reason to be afraid of either. 

A little further. 

His lungs expand and eyes clear. The rotation of the earth makes sense. Because now, against a stone wall on the very edge of the forest, Jared can see Gray. 

Sitiv roars behind the quill. It eclipses everything in its path. It formulates torture and craves profit. Howling, bellowing, it thrashes Jared’s shadow, slicing permanent, jagged scars into its back. More. It wants more. It wants everything Jared has to give and more. Always more. Pierced and hooked, Jared’s shadow succumbs, torn and lost to Sitiv. 

It lusts after agony. It eats the shadow, swallows it whole, unmistakable by the sound of slurping and gnashing. Monstrous. Thirsty. Greedy. Drink, drink, drink. 

Jared keeps his eyes open.

For the moment he crashes into Gray.

 

The young quill in the largest pen wails in misery.

Eyes rolled back, the body and the spirit wrench against their iron chains. Searing, excruciating pain blasts through his spine, igniting shock. The screams become shrill bleats rising and rising in pitch. His shoulders heave forward following a vehement jolt of trauma between his legs. Half blind and confused, Jared sobs from the virulent spasms in his hips. Pressure inflates inside him until it threatens to pop. No amount of breathing will stop it. No amount of pleading can return him to the forest. 

“Stay down!” A foreign voice slams into the quill’s eardrums. “I said stay down, all of you!” 

Slipping on blood-soaked, filthy hay, Jared’s knees quiver. Something isn’t right. Something is happening to him and it’s wrong. 

His stomach lurches. 

A heavy weight rests on his neck. 

Shadows play out what he cannot see. One figure lunges towards another. A shout. A growl. The thud of a heavy object on the hardwood floor. 

The sound of a whip cracking and Jensen crying out. 

For a few short seconds in time, Jared’s vision clears. He takes things in one at a time, as he sees them. Iron chains him to his milking station. The machine is on and nothing but blood slips through the line from Jared’s cock. And below, looking at himself, rests the mound of a quill heavy with foal. 

He’s giving birth.

And he’s dying.

Milked for two hundred and twenty seven days without reprieve, without rest, without once being unchained. Milked dry. Used up. Skeletal like the quill who pointed opposite the rubber red ball.

Moaning, Jared resists the dark spots around his eyes. The foal lurches inside him, dropping, but sitting low in his pelvis, dangerously stuck. 

Jensen emerges from the shadows reflected on the pen wall. 

His hands fly to Jared’s face where they land for only a second. They flutter over to Jared’s wrists, using keys to unlock the chains.  

“Hold on,” Jensen pleads, “just hold on.” 

There should be an answer here. 

Jared sees three things: a stone peeking out from under the milking station, the object that fell, and a shadow creeping up the pen wall. Surging up, Jensen collides with the shadow’s physical form. It’s not enough, but there are some things Jared just knows.

The stone is a bullet. 

And a bullet goes inside a gun. 

Finger on the trigger, Jared aims from his place on the floor, bleeding out, the foal fighting against his body, and his eyesight failing. Two hundred and twenty seven days. The red rubber ball. It lured him outside the barn, where he was caught and held hostage by Sitiv. Sitiv, a farmer he had never seen before, who held the gun to his temple and ordered all the quills and quinns in the barn to behave or Jared’s brains would be blown out of his pretty little head. Sitiv, backwards for vitis, responsible for the poisonous vines wrapped around Gray.

Sitiv who milked the other quills in the barn to death. Sitiv who worked every quinn to death. Except for one. Just so that particular quinn could watch his quill give birth to his foal--and then watch them both die.

Two hundred and twenty seven days of torture.

_ Bang! _

And it ends now.

Sitiv’s blood splatters on the gate to Jared and Jensen’s pen.

It’s sunrise.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> PHEW.
> 
> Can we show some love to my amazing artist, Blackbluerose? Please leave some love for them in the comments. <3 An eternal thank you to my betas: mcdanno28, rieraclaelin, and E. Thank you for the brain storming, the editing, the counseling, the support, and the kicks in the ass when needed. 
> 
> Just like last year, you'll have to wait for an epilogue. It'll be up in a few days, after i get some rest. :) This is a really... out there fic, so ask questions! Leave comments! Send hugs! Thank you for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> Songs: White Room by Cream and The Devil by Mary Lou Williams.


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